To Holmes From Holmes
by natalieashe
Summary: Mycroft sends Sherlock an unexpected gift. Not Johnlock. Mention of Mystrade. Rating updated for cursing
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This started out life as humor but ended up sweet and gentle instead. Each chapter is quite short. Hope you enjoy it.**

Sherlock stared at the box that sat in the centre of the kitchen table in a patch of sunlight. So far he had catalogued its mass (estimated at 2lbs, weighed on the kitchen scale at 896g) and its dimensions (length 30.8cm, width 30.5cm, depth 8.6cm), its colour (best described as garish purple), and the sound it made when he shook it cautiously (very little). It irritated him slightly that it was not quite square, two sides being fractionally longer, but what annoyed him mostly was the fact it was tied with an elaborate cream ribbon.

"What's that?" asked John, coming up behind him and setting a plate of Mrs Hudson's biscuits at his elbow. Sherlock hadn't heard him come in, but he was never really surprised to find him there. John breezed in and out of 221b in much the same way as he had when he actually lived there, and Sherlock was well adept at picking up conversations hours, or sometimes even days, after they broke off.

"A gift, apparently," he said, wondering what else he could possibly determine about it from the outside.

"Oh, thanks, you shouldn't have."

"I didn't," Sherlock scowled, missing the teasing tone in John's voice. "It's for me. From Mycroft!"

"Blimey, is it ticking?" joked John, as he reached for the kettle. When Sherlock made no comment he looked at him curiously. "Seriously, your brother has sent you a gift? _Mycroft Holmes_, the only man in the universe to be less sentimental than you?"

John thought back to Christmases and birthdays they'd celebrated since their friendship began and realised he didn't recall Sherlock ever mentioning a gift from his elder sibling. John knew Sherlock always bought a gift for Mycroft because he himself had purchased, wrapped and delivered all of them, most with very little input from Sherlock who deemed himself above such dull activities as shopping! It wasn't Sherlock's birthday however, and Christmas was months away.

"Don't you exchange gifts?"

Sherlock actually shuddered at the thought. "Not since our parents stopped forcing us to spend our pocket money on pointless gaudy pieces of plastic that were meant to educate and entertain. We used to pride ourselves on finding the one object we knew the other would detest."

"They're called toys Sherlock, and they're meant to be fun. So aren't you going to open it?"

Sherlock sighed and turned his back on it, rooting around in the cupboard for clean cups. "Maybe later. I have work to do."

John shrugged and filled the teapot with boiling water. Sherlock obviously had some kind of gift-related issue he had to work out before he could commit to opening the box and hurrying him along would be counter-productive. He would just have to park his curiosity until then.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Because it's really short, two chapters at once.**

"And another thing," said Sherlock belligerently into the afternoon silence slapping his hands on his thighs, "I do _not_ work for gifts or incentives of any kind!"

"What?" said John, dipping the newspaper so he could peer over the top, completely baffled by Sherlock's sudden outburst. Clearly the other man had been having a conversation in his head that had suddenly erupted from his lips. Sherlock looked peeved that John hadn't immediately resumed the conversation he assumed they'd been having aloud.

"The gift! It has to be some kind if bribe to get me to take a case. Why else would Mycroft send me a gift?"

"I really don't know Sherlock, perhaps he's apologising for something."

"Like what?" Sherlock had sprung from his seat and was pacing back and forth through the living area, brow furrowed and hands clasped behind his back. His bare feet stalked silently across the rug.

"Being Mycroft is enough to apologise for at times." That made Sherlock grin momentarily, but then he resumed his frantic stride, dressing gown swishing with each sharp turn. John returned to his newspaper, scanning the pages for crimes that may prove interesting to the detective. "Why don't you open it and find out?"

"No, that's what he wants."

"Well obviously! No one buys a gift and expects it to remain in the unopened box."

Sherlock stalked to the table where the box still sat, performed a circuit glaring at it continuously, and then returned to his chair without touching it.


	3. Chapter 3

John ran lightly upstairs early the next morning calling on Sherlock on his way to work, only to find the detective slumped over the table, his head resting on his folded arms. At first John thought he had fallen asleep and was about to shake him awake with the express purpose of giving him a good scolding when the detective's mournful voice rumbled into the room. "Why would he _do_ this John?"

The box still sat solidly on the table with no sign of interference, although Sherlock's usual clutter had begun to gather around it. Files were spread out to his right, mobile phone propped up against the side of the purple box and a pile of slides spilled across the notebook beneath his hands. The microscope was balanced a little too close to the edge of the table so John pushed it to a safer position.

"I assume we're still on the topic of the gift? I've never known anyone to be so upset to be given a present. Perhaps he's just being nice?"

"Nice? _Nice? _This is Mycroft! He doesn't do nice!" Sherlock spat.

"Greg would disagree," John smirked. "I notice he's sporting a rather expensive Rolex these days, and a definite spring in his step."

"Ugh! I don't want to think what Lestrade had to go through to earn that." Sherlock visibly winced at the budding relationship between the DI and his brother. "It's disgusting!"

John quirked an eyebrow. "Really? Didn't take you for a homophobe."

"Not _that_! I have absolutely no interest in, or opinion on, their relationship or their bedroom antics. I'm talking about Lestrade enduring my brother's company when he's happy. Enough to turn the strongest stomach."

"I think Greg may be the cause of all that happiness. Stop being such a grump Sherlock; I thought you said he was lonely? So now he's not, and neither is Greg."

Sherlock huffed and prodded the box with one long slim finger. Apart from causing it to move an inch further away from him so his phone clattered onto the table there was no other discernible effect. It still sat obstinately on the table irritating the curly-haired man.

"There's always the obligation to reciprocate when a gift is received, and you have no idea of the demands my brother could make in return," he said sadly.


	4. Chapter 4

John had taken up running to combat the extra pounds that seemed to be a side effect of married life, and on a Saturday morning he liked to run towards Baker Street and then spend the morning with Sherlock, usually forcing his friend to complete boring but essential tasks like supermarket shopping or laundry. He had suggested more than once that Sherlock should accompany him in a circuit of the park, a proposal that was rudely rejected by his friend, but the detective did like to reward him with a surprisingly good cooked breakfast that probably devalued any positive effects of the run. John's mouth watered at the smell of bacon and eggs while he showered and dressed in the jeans and shirt he still kept at the flat.

Back in the kitchen he leaned on the counter and shovelled his meal greedily noting that the gift was still unopened and was starting to acquire random food stains and other dubious marks.

"We need to go to Tesco," John called from the kitchen. "You're running low on proper food. Man cannot live on Pot Noodle alone."

Sherlock hummed, but showed no sign of moving from his chair. His long legs were outstretched, his fingers curled around a mug of tea that rested lightly on his stomach.

"Have you made a list? Sherlock? Sherlock, are you listening? Where is your shopping list?"

"What? Oh in my coat pocket," he said absently, sipping from the mug and continuing to stare into space, and still not moving from his chair. "Just get whatever's on it."

"You're supposed to be coming with me."

"Too busy," he said, sliding further down and tapping his fingers against his thigh. John thought about protesting, but Sherlock was still in his pyjamas and dressing gown. By the time he persuaded him to get dressed John could be there and back again. With a put-upon sigh the doctor went to Tesco leaving Sherlock behind. He was still curled up in his seat when John returned an hour later, only now he was scribbling frantically on the back of an unopened gas bill.

"What are you writing?"

"A list."

"I already took your list Sherlock and bought the most sensible items from it and replaced the rest with healthy snacks. How did you ever live before me?"

"Food just sort of happened. Not a shopping list - a list of everything that could be in that box!"

"But given the size and shape that could be a huge list! It would be far easier just to open the damn box!"

Sherlock dismissed that idea with a snort. "Then I couldn't return it."

"You really are an ungrateful git. Maybe it's a kitten? Schrodinger's cat? Currently more dead than alive because you have some sort of hang up that your brother is manipulating you."

"Schrodinger's Cat is a thought experiment that has little to do with actual cats in boxes. Don't try to be clever John, it doesn't suit you," grumped Sherlock. "And why would Mycroft send me a bloody cat?"

"More practical than a dog in the city? Something to keep you company now that I'm not here?"

"That's stupid! A cat can't cook or blog or… whatever else you used to do around here."

"I still do most of it apparently," John huffed good-naturedly, not offended in the slightest at Sherlock's lack of gratitude for all he had done and continued to do, and stowed the groceries in the cupboards.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Last one tonight, all will be revealed tomorrow**

Standing under the steaming shower John had just about forgiven Sherlock for making him clamber through the huge council waste bins looking for the murder weapon when he heard a commotion from the living room. He dashed from the bathroom at Sherlock's yell, gripping the towel wrapped haphazardly around his hips with one hand and brandishing a bottle of shampoo - the only weapon he could lay his hands on - in the other.

"You're an imbecile!" screamed the detective at the unknown assailant, just as John stumbled dripping wet into the lounge on high alert. Sherlock was up in the face of... The bloody _skull_? It grinned back at the furious detective, completely unmoved by his ire. John, on the other hand, leant against the wall fighting against the spike of adrenaline and contemplated braining Sherlock with the bottle as an act of revenge for scaring him half to death.

"Are you fighting with the fucking _skull_ now?" he gasped, making a grab for the towel that started sliding to the floor

"I need to know what's in the box," Sherlock whined.

"Well he can't tell you! Why can't you just _open_ the fucking box, you idiot! Or failing that, text Mycroft and ask what's in it!"

"Oh! Brilliant idea, John. Why didn't _you_ think of that, stupid?" He bit at the skull.

Ten minutes later Sherlock tossed his phone onto the coffee table and threw himself down onto the sofa in a sulk, turning his back to John who rolled his eyes and continued flicking through the TV channels. He finally settled on a re-run of Doctor Who, which was normally guaranteed to cheer his huffy companion out of the worst of moods.

"Mycroft no help?" He asked mildly.

"Mycroft is too busy to talk to me and Anthea suggests I should just open it. Apparently _he_ says I'll like it, which definitely means I'll hate it!"

"Not necessarily. Perhaps _he_ hates it, therefore you _will_ like it. You two over-complicate your relationship so much it's a wonder you still bother to speak at all!"

Sherlock considered he'd made an art of not speaking to his brother, but he had to confess Mycroft had become marginally more tolerable of late. He grudgingly conceded it was probably due to Lestrade's influence, getting him to loosen up and live a little, as much as his brother could ever do so, and he wondered what common ground the pair could have discovered to enable a relationship to blossom. John appeared to think the partnership was a good thing for both men, and he trusted his friend's instincts. It still didn't assist with his current dilemma, however.

"What should I _do_ John?"

John glared at him with steely blue eyes, patience finally starting to wear thin. "Try. Opening. The Fucking. Box!"

"_Fine!_ I'll just open it then shall I?"

"God, yes please!"


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, the box in front of him while John leant on the kitchen counter watching the second hand of his watch sweep round for what must be the tenth time since Sherlock agreed to open the gift. The anticipation was killing him, but Sherlock just looked... Scared?

"Come on Sherlock, I'm sure it won't bite. If it _is_ a cat it's almost certainly dead by now anyway."

He squeezed the detective's shoulder by way of support and nudged the scissors closer to his friend's hand. The detective ignored them but did begin picking at the intricate bow with his fingernails. It was agonisingly slow for John who really just wanted his curiosity satisfied, so he busied himself preparing tea, the perfect antidote to a stressful situation. He wondered if Mycroft had any idea of the effect such a simple thing as a gift would have on his brother. Of course he would; Mycroft did nothing without fully understanding the consequences and having a backup plan or three, so this had to be a significant moment in the Holmes' relationship. Sherlock's discomfort with the situation was doing nothing to reassure the doctor.

The first knot was finally free and Sherlock paused, watching John move methodically around the kitchen, clearly trying to distract himself and pretend he wasn't intrigued by the detective's feelings towards the gift. The little glances over his shoulder and the number of times he touched Sherlock's shoulder or straightened the scissors on the table gave him away. He was clearly itching to reach over Sherlock's shoulder and slice through the ribbon himself. Reluctantly Sherlock began work on the second knot and eventually the ribbon was undone so the box could be opened, but Sherlock just stared at it.

"Problem?" asked John.

Sherlock hummed, a sharp agitated sound, and scowled down at his hands. "The last time Mycroft sent me a gift out of the blue like this I was being sent away to school. I didn't want to go. What if..?"

"If...? Sherlock, he's not going to send you away if that's what you're worried about? You're not a little kid any more that has to do as he's told. Not that I imagine you ever did too much of that. Anyway, he doesn't have that kind of power. Does he...?"

Their eyes met, denim blue and stormy green, remembering two years apart that were only now starting to fade into less painful memories. The consequences of Sherlock's absence had been life changing for them both. They both warily watched the box for a while, each lost in their private thoughts.


	7. Chapter 7

John cleared away supper and tidied the kitchen, neatly storing everything in its proper place. Funny that even though he no longer lived in 221b, there were moments with Sherlock that felt undeniably like 'home'. Sherlock had retired to his chair where he sat pensively, fingers steepled and a deep frown marring his forehead, clearly still troubled. John's eyes fell on the gift box and he grimaced. Maybe it didn't really matter what it contained if they opened it together? They'd faced far worse; a gift from Mycroft with whatever strings were attached would be child's play if they were united, and John wouldn't let Sherlock leave again unless he knew he was coming home again.

Decision made, he carried it to Sherlock and placed it carefully on his lap, offering a reassuring smile at the detective's alarmed expression. The last time John had seen him look so terrified had been when he'd held John's squirming baby daughter for the first time. He gently took his friend's hand.

"Together?"

"Ok."

One brief nod of Sherlock's head and a nervous gulp. Two pairs of hands, one shaking imperceptibly, the other calm and steady, lifted the lid.

"Oh!" They both breathed simultaneously.

* * *

The photograph was placed proudly on the mantel at 221b in its slightly tarnished antique silver frame. The frame itself reminded them of their friendship, slightly battered and beautiful in its way, but the picture inside spoke far more eloquently of a special connection. The moment itself was not even remembered, lost in a million moments of their unusual relationship. Taken at dusk, oddly lit by blue strobes and with a background of a grotty London alleyway crime scene, the slightly grainy shot taken on Lestrade's mobile captured a look between Sherlock and John of pure love and happiness.

"Who knew the love of a good man could turn a Holmes so sentimental?" John joked softly trying to think of an appropriate way to thank their friends.

"Who indeed?" Sherlock whispered in reply.

the end

**A/N: yes I know it's soppy and incredibly sentimental and the Holmes boys would scoff but indulge me :-D And yeah, it took so long to open the box cos I couldn't decide what was in it lol**


End file.
